


Wasted Potential

by capriciousTheosophist (orionCipher)



Category: Persona 4
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:49:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5680321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orionCipher/pseuds/capriciousTheosophist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yosuke wants to get used, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wasted Potential

**Author's Note:**

> In my defense: I was half asleep and on Lortab when I wrote this. Also, it just wasn't fair that I could hit on all the girls but never bang Yosuke ~~or those basketball guys.~~

It was hard ignoring the way Chie's hips flicked over Seta's, knees scraping the floor, the entire act gruesome and detached. All Yosuke could do was grimace and turn away, stepping softly around the corner and making cozy on a steamy bench. Long weeks of awkward scuttling and barely halted yelps had strictly instructed him in the methods of pushing beyond juvenile reactions and etiquette-bound disgust. When your never-but-in-your-head best friend screws every team mate you get, you learn to grit your teeth and feign bubble-headed ignorance. Which may've been easier to Yosuke than most, but still...

He wanted to know when killing the monsters took a back seat to getting off. When saving the world lost to savage fucking. When revenge was cast aside for women.  
Not knowing burned and bit at him.  
Knowing how little they thought of him carved him hollow.

A withered moan crushed the wandering thoughts, reminding him of his place. He was the sidekick. The comic relief. He could fight, but he'd never be the center piece; only Seta could be the hero. The Champion. The victor who would stop the darkness and save the world and piece their lives back together and wear a cloak of every hymen he broke.

Inner dialogue was the only thing keeping Yosuke's bones unbroken.  
Hurray for small favors of massive proportions.

Time was slipping faster and faster away, and sleeping was creeping in on his already muddled mind. The occasional moan, echoed pants, great heaves turned to whispers amid the steam - all of it melded into white noise in the heat, luring Yosuke closer to the escape of a sweat-soaked REM cycle, until, finally, he succumb. He dreamt of the first time he saw it, when Yukiko accepted her Shadow and the fog in the castle got thick and separated them on their way out. How her toes curled back as she writhed before him. stockings shorn beneath the upturned skirt, the grime of the antiquated castle rubbing off on her once crisp uniform. And he remembered the way her fingers toyed with the hem after, the way her hands carded through the snarls in and attempt to revive the resplendence.

He was easily distracted, not slow. Quick tugs and pulls couldn't erase _sex_.

But hey, if they wanted an easy way out, he'd be more than hospitable.  
His dream morphed.

Accusations and tears and shadows streamed past like a pallet cleanser before he fell back into the same strands of unconsciousness.

The four of them meeting up at the school gates, laughing, chattering, being normal high school kids. Racing up the stairs as the bells rang, desperate to get to class on time. Slamming into a seat before Morooka came in. The innocuous hand down his pants, squeezing precum down past the freneum. A broad chest pressed against his back, teeth on his ear, his neck, his jaw, spare hand coiling firmly about his waist while the backdrop spun and dropped and swirled and seeped out darker, spewing out the liqueur store casting Yosuke on his knees while the touching just. Wouldn't. Stop.  
He was begging for more, several fingers already knuckle deep and wiggling, teasing and smoothing past a little lump that made him cave like his strings had been cut, while his eyes rolled back and did a funny little color dance, the heavy whispers always 'more, more, more.' He woke up, dick handless, face unmarred, and uniform wilted but orderly. They'd finished - clothes just a bit off, hair too tousled to be a style - and come to wake him. How sweet.  
And if he ignored the last minute barb from a shaky-legged Chie he could _almost_ coerce his mind into playing along.

Almost wasn't good enough.  
Whatever. He'd worked with worse.

It was hard pretending he didn't know Seta's sloppy little secret.  
It was even harder wanting to be a part of it.


End file.
